Not Quite Darcy: In Time, #1

Dedication

Dedicated to Mike. You know that annoying I told you so dance you do? Well, here’s the book, so start dancing. Your support has meant everything. I love you, you knucklehead.

With thanks to Gillie Sturcbecher for being there from start to finish. To Jennifer Aumanstal, Elizabeth Perry and Monika Pollwein—betas extraordinaire. To Mary Kurtz, Archivist Superhero. To Holly Atkinson, a phenomenal editor who makes this fun. And lastly, thanks to the gang at Elysian Fields, without whose feedback this story wouldn’t have gotten past chapter ten.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Struck Through Copyright © 2015 by Terri Meeker ISBN: 978-1619227880

Edited by Holly Atkinson, Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Ist Edition – Samhain Publishing, January 2015

2nd Edition – Puddinhead Press, March 2017

Chapter One

You can’t leave the ball, my pet, Lord Coleridge Darrington murmured into her ear. Anastasia shivered with desire as he grasped her by the waist, pressing her body against his hard...

Brring. Brring. A sound tore Eliza from the pages of her book and plopped her back behind the office desk at the empty model home.

Goddamn phone. She pulled her eyes from her book and shot a death glare at the cursed plastic, blinking intrusion.

She set her paperback facedown on the desk and picked up the receiver. Olde Stone Forest Manors. This is Eliza Pepper. How may I serve you? Serve you? She despised that greeting. Each time she said it, the words chipped away a sliver of her soul.

Liza! Skip here. Her boss’s overly enthused voiced buzzed in her ear. How’d we do this week?

This week had gone pretty much like every week had gone since the big housing bust, but Skip already knew this. Selling McMansions in a crap economy was only for the very foolish or very desperate. Eliza herself was a little of both.

Fifteen walk-ins. Eliza tidied up her desk in preparation for the weekend. And I booked a return for you tomorrow morning at ten. She glanced up at the white plaster vaulted ceiling. The skylights winked in a fading light.

Is the applicant viable? Skip asked.

Looks good so far. Eliza grabbed her book bag and began placing her paperbacks inside. "He’s a writer for Prison Dance-Off." Save her from a world where reality shows needed writers.

Well. Skip sounded disappointed. I suppose one is better than nada. Talk to you next week, Liza.

Next week then, Eliza said, trying and failing to fake enthusiasm. She wondered if her boss of over a year would ever bother to actually learn her name.

She hung up, then tucked her business cards into the top drawer and replaced them with Skip’s. She picked up her dog-eared historical romance. After marking her place, she turned to the cover. She glanced back at her boss’s card. The windblown, half-dressed English lord was so much easier on her eyes than Skip’s plastic, grinning visage. She looked back at her book.

Thank you, Lord Darrington. You got me through another week. Which reminds me—we have a date after work, don’t we? Her voice echoed off the stuccoed walls. And talking to yourself is a sane thing to do when you have a job like mine. It’s only when the voices talk back that they classify you as certifiable.

She skipped down the steps and slid behind the wheel of her compact with a grin. She positively thrummed with anticipation by the time she eased her Mazda into the flow of rush-hour traffic. After fifteen minutes of stop-and-go lurching, she pulled into the downtown shopping district, surprised to find an empty space directly in front of her destination. She couldn’t help but feel as though Lady Fortune had tossed a favor over the fence as she nosed her car into the spot.

Times Past. The elaborate script of the store’s sign was tasteful, discreet. When she’d spotted the shop a few days ago, it had looked promising, but she’d been just late enough for work that she hadn’t had time to get a good look. Wanting to relish the experience, she stopped before the window to savor the wonders it held.

The display was crammed with delights. An old-fashioned writing desk was wedged between a set of antique chairs. A tea set, carefully arranged, perched on top of a pile of Dickens’ books. Front and center was a dress. But it wasn’t a dress—not exactly. It was The Dress. The bait which had hooked her while driving past earlier that week. Up close, with only a sheet of glass in her way, the gown was so stunning it took her a moment before she remembered to exhale.

To Eliza’s semi-trained eye, the dress appeared to be straight out of the Victorian era. It was perfection. Made of moss-green brushed satin, it was trimmed with black lace. Its wide sleeves tapered down to end in a delicate point at the wrist. The folds of the material seemed to shimmer with motion, even though the gown itself remained perfectly still.

The mannequin’s face hid behind her tastefully placed fan. A small bit of paper was pinned to the gown’s bodice, in the exact spot where someone might wear a Hello! My Name is ______ tag. The message printed on it in elaborate script read, Time is short. Make it count.

A shiver skated up Eliza’s spine. What an odd note to find pinned to an antique dress. Though it proclaimed its strange message to anyone who paused to look close enough, the warning felt personal, intimate.

Never the sort to be put off by peculiarities, Eliza twisted the doorknob and stepped inside the intriguing store. A tinkling bell above the door announced her arrival.

She scanned the interior with eager eyes. The shop seemed devoid of sales staff, but was stuffed to the point of bursting with an eclectic mishmash of items from bygone eras. Shelves were packed with clothing and knickknacks arranged in no kind of order. Men’s vests mixed with old wooden toys and kitchen gadgets were heaped in a pile on an elaborate fireplace grate.

It was a delightful mess.

Eliza stepped toward the gown in the window. She slid her hand through the folds of green fabric, touching the material lightly. She closed her eyes and allowed a smile.

May I help you? An English-accented voice asked from behind her. Eliza bit back an eep of surprise and turned around. An old, stooped man stood a few feet away. He was dressed in Victorian garb, a gray and black suit with vest and cravat. To complete the picture, he even sported a pair of white muttonchop sideburns.

She gave the man a wide grin. Hi.

Good afternoon. His lips parted in a friendly smile. Do you require my assistance?

You have an English accent, Eliza blurted.

The old man nodded. It’s an unfortunate side effect.

Of what?

Being English.

The man was wonderfully odd and seemed the perfect proprietor for such a shop. Eliza clapped her hands together. Ha, that’s great. And we have so few antique stores in Cali. So happy to see you’ve come along. I’m Eliza Pepper.

Ah, how very friendly of you, Miss Pepper. Archibald York, at your service. He gave a formal bow, from the waist.

Beautiful dress, she said, turning her attention back to the window.

It is. Over a hundred and thirty years old, that gown. It’s quite dear.

"Do you mean dear as in adorable, or dear as in expensive, the way English people do? You can’t mean deer as in mammal. I guess you mean the English one."

He chuckled. What a singular way you have with language, Miss Pepper. And you seem quite fluent in the English version of English as well. I must inquire, are you also an aficionado of times past?

She nodded vigorously. Oh yeah. The Victorian era is my absolute favorite. I read about it all the time.

Ah, a scholar of the nineteenth century, are you?

Sure. Back home I’ve got more than a hundred books on it. To mask her guilt, she turned her attention back toward the dress. No need for York to know that her research consisted of romance novels and—when she was feeling particularly ambitious—Jane Austen.

That’s excellent news, York said.

I can’t seem to find a price tag on the gown. It’s probably way out of my range, but I have to ask—how much is it? She hoped her attempt to change the subject didn’t sound as transparent as it felt.

I suppose that might rather depend on a great number of things. He smiled at her in a grandfatherly way. What a peculiar answer to what had to be the most common question asked of a storekeeper.

What’s the asking price? she pressed.

My...compatriot, err, my partner, is doing paperwork in the office. He could give you the particulars of that dress, I believe. If you’ll come with me.

York turned and shuffled through the burdened tables toward the back of the store. Red drapes shrouded the doorway. He tugged them back and stepped aside to allow Eliza to enter.

Where the shop had been an untidy jumble, the back room was ordered and artfully arranged. A small sofa huddled in the corner beneath a lace-curtained window, and gold-framed scenes of the English countryside graced the walls. An old-fashioned roll-top desk sat in the center of the room and Eliza could just spot the top of a man’s head behind it. A large rectangular object hung on the wall beyond the desk. Though it was covered by a large black cloth, the mysterious object dominated the room.

James? I believe we have a promising potential. York paused for a moment and flitted a glance toward Eliza. I mean to say, ehm, this young lady is interested in making a purchase. I thought you might speak with her.

The man behind the desk stood. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and he, too, was dressed in Victorian garb, but with a far more devastating effect than York. His tight, gray suit coat emphasized his broad shoulders and his glossy black hair was just long enough to brush the edge of his collar. A hint of five o’clock shadow darkened his perfectly chiseled chin. If only that crisp white shirt were unbuttoned and a strong breeze managed to blow through the room, he’d look like he’d stepped from the cover of one of Eliza’s books.

She raised her gaze to look into his eyes. Stormy, as she knew they would be. Suddenly, her legs felt like they’d been turned into overcooked pasta. Completely out of her depth, she gave her best approximation of a smile.

Ah, she heard herself say. Polysyllabic words, or any words at all, had jumped ship.

I beg your pardon? His upper-class accent dropped the Rs, turning pardon into pah-don. When she tried to take a breath, her lungs were entirely uncooperative. If she fainted dead away, would he catch her, or would she just end up laid out across the floor? The chance of feeling those arms around her might be worth the risk of concussion.

Allow me to introduce Miss Eliza Pepper, York said. Miss Pepper, this is my partner, Mr. James Lancaster.

After turning her gaze from Tall Dark and Devastating, she stared at York until her legs returned to their less noodly state and her breathing normalized. The dress? I was wondering how much it was.

Dress? Again, I must ask to beg your pardon, Miss Pepper. Which dress would you be referring to? Lancaster’s baritone rumbled.

Before she could answer, York spoke. Miss Pepper is a scholar of the nineteenth century. I thought her a most promising candidate.

Is that so? James Lancaster appraised her with a haughty look that made Eliza immediately think of Mr. Darcy.

I think there’s been some confusion. Eliza wasn’t in a hurry to say goodbye and yet they’d clearly misunderstood who she was. I’m not here to apply for a job. I’m just interested in the gown in the window.

Lancaster swept his well-manicured fingers toward the chair in front of his desk. Please have a seat. His voice was commanding and Eliza found herself halfway sitting before she’d made a conscious decision to do so.

Do you interview all your customers? It must be exhausting.

We don’t interview all our customers, no. In a month, you would be the second—interviewee—as you put it.

She felt a spark of irritation that he’d ignored her question about the dress yet again. But then he turned his gray eyes on her and something in her chest melted into a gooey puddle.

So, Miss Pepper. You’ve studied the Victorian era, have you?

I’ve read a library full of books on the subject, yes. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. Just mostly.

Lancaster tented his fingers on the desktop and looked at her with skeptical eyes.

Before we discuss the dress, please allow me an indulgence. Do you consider yourself to be an adventurous person?

Ah, maybe? And what does it have to do with the dress? Is being edgy a purchase requirement or something? Only bungee jumpers need apply?

You have a most peculiar manner of speech, miss, Lancaster said in a flat tone.

I’m peculiar? Me? I’m just asking about the dress. You’re the one with the creepy personal questions.

I assure you that my intentions are anything but ‘creepy,’ as you so charmingly phrased it. The man had the nerve to look affronted. He might reduce her knees to jelly, but the Lord of the Manor ’tude was beginning to rub her a little raw.

Miss Pepper, please, York said. You must forgive James’s manner. He’s better at the business end of things. I tend to handle the social aspects of our partnership.

Well, I just wanted to know—

Yes, I understand, York continued. And we’ll get to that, you have my word on the matter. It’s just that meeting you, discovering you’ve studied the nineteenth century—you seemed a perfect fit for another endeavor.

Archie, I hardly think we’re well enough acquainted with Miss Pepper make the ambitious leap to that assumption, Lancaster said.

You are overly cautious in these matters, James. And our window here isn’t unlimited, you know. We’re far behind quota as it is.

Lancaster sighed and appraised Eliza with raised brows.

Eliza twisted her purse strap between her fingers, conflicted. Part of her wanted to jump out of the chair and make a break for the exit. But another part of her, the bigger, more curious part, longed to linger. Besides, McBroodypants Lancaster seemed so adverse to her that it egged on her stubborn side.

She pushed a little further, folding her arms. The dress. How much?

York gave a good-natured chuckle. She’s got determination, James. We could do worse.

We could also wait for a more suitable candidate, Lancaster said.

You felt we could wait during the Rasputin situation as well, York grumbled. Need I remind you how that turned out?

With a twang, Eliza felt her last thread of patience snap. This right here is why people shop online. She stood, her purse gripped firmly in her hand, and stepped toward the door.

York moved to block her path and offered an apologetic smile. Miss Pepper, forgive our somewhat cryptic manner. I fear we’ve tried your patience most horribly. I do feel, however, that once you’ve heard us out, you’ll find it worth your time.

Eliza took another step toward the door.

In addition, York said, holding out his palm, to thank you for your time, I’m willing to offer you the gown in the window for twenty dollars.

Lancaster made blustering sounds behind her back. Though she was no expert, the gown had to be worth several hundred.

I’d be robbing you. Fifty bucks. Not a dollar less than fifty.

And she’s got a strong sense of ethics. York beamed a smug smile over her shoulder to his partner. At this point, your reluctance is only a matter of pride.

Very well. Lancaster’s tone was resigned. If you’d please just give us a few more moments of your time. No more than thirty minutes. We have a proposal for you. After which, should you choose to accept or reject our offer, the gown shall be yours for the ridiculous sum of fifty dollars.

Eliza shook her head. She knew she should feel victorious, but the whole situation kept twisting and turning in such odd ways she had difficulty keeping up.

She stepped back and eased herself into the chair. Her stomach twisted. She only hoped her exterior projected calm and cool, since her insides were currently in freak-out mode. Okay, it’s a deal, she said. Give me your pitch.

My...pitch? Lancaster asked.

Yeah. Your spiel. Go ahead and try to sell me some Amway or make me listen to your indie demo or whatever it is you’re building toward here.

Chapter Two

Both men stared at Eliza. Neither said a word.

Well, yes, York said. Quite. Direct and to the point, American-style. He raised a white eyebrow at Lancaster and some kind of silent communication pass between them.

The younger man nodded thoughtfully, then flashed his gray eyes upon Eliza. His lips quirked in the hint of a smile and Eliza’s breath caught in her throat.

Please forgive us, Miss Pepper. This must seem an exceedingly strange circumstance to you.

It’s the first time I’ve been interviewed to buy a dress. She returned his gaze. When he didn’t look away, she felt a rush of discomfort. But the dress had nothing to do with why I got called into the back office, did it?

Intuitive too. Mr. York clucked.

Yes, I know, Archie. You needn’t sell me on the girl any longer.

So what is it about? Eliza asked. Have you considered using Craig’s List? ’Cause they have sections for just about everything and you’d be way less likely to scare off potential customers.

Mr. Lancaster smiled at that. His teeth were brilliantly white. What else would they be?

Mr. Craig’s list wouldn’t suit our purposes. The situation we offer requires a meeting and a very specific type of person. Someone similar to yourself, Miss Pepper.

Well, I know you’re English and just coming right out with it seems indelicate or something to you people, but how about you tell me about the situation, I say no, I give you fifty bucks and leave the store with my dress?

Declining an offer without first hearing it doesn’t seem terribly prudent. Lancaster leveled a dark glance over her shoulder at his partner. Eliza had to admit the haughty English lord demeanor played a little better in the pages of a book than it did in real life.

So, let’s hear it. Good god, if it takes you two this long to get to the point, it’s a miracle you’re still in business.

Very well. You’ve expressed a fondness for and a knowledge of the nineteenth century. That would be correct, would it not?

She nodded.

Would you be interested in experiencing that time for yourself?

Experience it? You mean like a theme park or a kind of Renaissance fair?

He rubbed his chin and shook his head. Not something as contrived as that. I mean to ask if had an opportunity to go back in time and actually experience life in the Victorian era, would you take it?

To actually live in the nineteenth century? That’s what you’re asking?

Lancaster nodded, watching her carefully.

Carriages and balls and dashing young lords?

Nineteenth-century London, he replied with an even tone.

Yeah, sure. If I were given a chance to actually go back in time, I think I’d have to go for that.

"You merely think you’d do it? You’re not certain?" The older shopkeeper interrupted. He sounded disappointed.

Eliza twisted her purse strap, unsure what the pair of men were trying to get at.

Would you, he continued, be more certain about participating if it weren’t merely satisfying your curiosity about the time? If there was a purpose to the trip? A greater good?

Well, sure. I mean, assuming all of this stuff isn’t rhetorical. Which it has to be. She gave a nervous laugh. Such a thing wasn’t possible. She knew this. Any sane person would.

York smiled timidly at her and gave her a hopeful smile. If there was a compelling reason to go or something out of place that you could set straight, would you be more willing to participate in such a venture?

Eliza blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Traveling through time to right a wrong? Kind of like a female, all-human, temp version of Doctor Who. Sure, I’d be game for something like that." She tried to sound flippant, but couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with this pair. Perhaps they were involved in some kind of elaborate Doctor Who cosplay. It would go a long way to explaining all the general weirdness of the situation, and it went right along with the whole British thing.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Or so they say. Lancaster stood up and whirled around to the large rectangular object behind his desk. He lifted his hand to sweep the material to the side, but York stopped him.

James, you’re going to give her no more preamble than that?

You’re the one who keeps reminding me that Americans prefer the direct approach, Archibald, Lancaster snapped.

Lancaster tugged on the cloth. Eliza braced herself as it fell to the floor. She was almost disappointed to see a simple mirror, albeit one with a very elaborate gilt-edged frame. Reflected in it she could see Lancaster, York, and herself seated before Lancaster’s desk. Her dirty-blonde hair was a disheveled mess and her green eyes reflected a lot more wide-eyed fear than she would have expected. She tucked her features into a controlled mask of calm.

Very nice mirror you’ve got there, she said in a perky, soothe-the-loony voice.

As a scholar of his time, I’m certain you’re familiar with Lewis Carroll?

Alice, Wonderland. Yep. Eliza nodded. Though the mirror seemed a common-enough object, she was unable to take her eyes from it.

This device would follow along with Mr. Carroll’s ideas. Please, step around to get a better view, Lancaster said. Our thirty minutes aren’t over yet. I assure you, you’ve nothing to be afraid of.

I’m not afraid of it. She gulped. This whole situation is just a little weird, that’s all.

She slipped past the desk and approached the mirror. The frame’s gold finish snapped and sparkled as she neared.

Touch it. Lancaster’s baritone rumbled in her ear and nearly made her jump.

He stepped past her. Like this. He placed his palm in the center of the mirror for just a moment, then pulled his hand away and gestured for her to do the same.

Cautiously, she held her hand up to the mirror. As she inched toward the bright surface, she felt a slight electric buzz dance across her skin. She fought the urge to scratch and pressed closer. The strange frisson intensified. Her instincts told her to pull back, but she caught a smug look in Lancaster’s eyes and pushed her palm flat against the surface.

The buzzing sensation ceased as though someone had thrown a switch.

She watched, mesmerized, as the mirror began to ripple, like waves receding from a thrown pebble. She snatched her hand back and stared at it in wonder as the reflection of the office dimmed and an entirely different scene shimmered into view: a rainy London street, apparently in Victorian times, as the few scattered people in the scene were dressed as though they were costumed for a Charles Dickens production.

It was neither a painting nor a photograph, for the surface was alive with movement. The image was startlingly clear—far better than any 3-D or high-def television she’d ever seen. It was so terribly real that it seemed less like something to hang on a wall and more like a window into another world.

Are you—are you trying to upsell me? Eliza shot a suspicious glance to Lancaster.

His mouth fell open. I must beg your pardon! What?

Upsell. You lure me in with a deal on the gown to high-pressure me to buy some kind of high-def Victorian doodad?

"I assure you, Miss Pepper, we are doing nothing of the kind. This item is most certainly not for sale. And it is not a doodad, whatever that may be. It’s genuine."

It’s genuine what?

See for yourself, Lancaster said cryptically.

She moved her hand back toward the surface of the mirror. When her palm was an inch from the frame, she felt a slight dampness, tiny drops of spray—from the moving picture—misted upon her skin. As she leaned in, she heard the faint sound of rain splattering against the cobblestones and a distinctive clop-clop of horse hooves.

Her world tilted and the ground beneath her turned spongy. As her heart stuttered, she snatched her hand away and back-pedaled toward her chair. She sat—or rather, collapsed—with a thump. "It’s real?" she gasped.

Lancaster gave her serious look and a nod. As real as you or me. Should you choose, you could step through that frame and find yourself in London in the year 1873.

And why would you—? Why would I—? Unsure of how to finish either sentence, Eliza shook her head. Her former skepticism burned away like dew in the summer sun.

Lancaster stepped toward her and perched on the edge of his desk. His eyes studied her carefully. Are you quite all right, Miss Pepper?

Eliza nodded vigorously. The room seemed to sway so she kept her eyes on the wood floor. It’s just...wow. A lot to take in. I kind of thought you guys were a pair of nutters.

We get that reaction almost one hundred percent of the time, York soothed. Even with the Rasputin case.

"Who are you guys?" Eliza blurted.

We’re the Repairmen. York pulled up a stool and settled in next to Eliza, looking concerned. James doesn’t like the term because it sounds too working class.

Which is precisely the reason you insist upon using it. Lancaster shot a dark glance at his partner.

What do you repair? Eliza asked.

"We are tasked with mending situations that have gone wrong in